The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Boïndil, whose thoughts were with his brother, barely said a word. It had taken considerable effort to persuade him to leave his frozen twin, and he had done so only on the basis that Boëndal had no use for his axes, whereas Tungdil did.

  On the morning of the sixth orbit they spotted the walls of a settlement. Adjusting his course, Tungdil made a beeline for the city. “Boïndil and I will find out what we can about the orcs. The rest of you get some sleep and be ready to leave this evening. With a bit of luck, we’ll reach the tunnels by dawn.”

  Entering the city through the main gates, they were surprised by the lack of guards. By the time they made their way through the winding maze of narrow alleys, they were acutely aware of the silence.

  “Humans are rarer than diamonds in this city,” grumbled Boïndil. “Do you think they’ve died of the plague?”

  They headed for the nearest tavern to look for some answers.

  The publican, a hirsute fellow of some forty cycles with the yellowest teeth that Tungdil had ever seen, practically fell over himself to welcome them. “It’s an honor to receive such distinguished guests,” he said with a bow. “Hillchester welcomes you.” He wiped his greasy hands on his apron. “I’ll give you my best room, of course, but I expect you’re in hurry to get to the market. The sun ceremony is the highlight of the cycle.”

  Boïndil and the others stared at him in bemusement. They weren’t used to human ways.

  “No wonder,” whispered Tungdil. “Everyone’s at the marketplace!” He followed the publican up the creaking staircase. “I’ll explain in a moment,” he hissed to Boïndil.

  The publican rushed away and came back seconds later with a tub of water. While they washed the dust off their faces, Tungdil told them what he knew about the sun ceremony. “It’s a cyclical festival with stands selling food and drink and all kinds of attractions. There’ll be peddlers and hawkers and music and dancing… Boïndil and I will head over there now. If it’s worth seeing, the rest of you can take a look later—you’ll have something to tell the others back home.”

  “Don’t wait for me,” said Boïndil, shooing him away. “If we search the city separately, we’ll be done in half the time.”

  “Only if you promise to talk to them politely,” said Tungdil cautiously, remembering an earlier incident involving singed whiskers and an altercation in a tavern. It was a miracle that no one had been killed.

  “Don’t worry, scholar, I know how to deal with long-uns,” breezed Boïndil, steering him out of the room. “See you at dusk.”

  “Very well,” said Tungdil with a smile. “But I don’t want to have to break up any fights.” He closed the door behind him.

  The spacious bar was remarkably empty. Sitting in the corner by the remains of the fire was a lone guest who, judging by his outfit, wasn’t a regular drinker at the tavern. He was wearing an expensively tailored tunic and knickerbockers of the finest cloth. His thin legs were clad in tights, and his fancy shoes were adorned with sparkling silver buckles. A ridiculous little hat perched on top of his bobbed black hair. He was clean-shaven and smelled as perfumed as a lady.

  Tungdil couldn’t help grinning at his preposterous attire. To his astonishment, the man jumped to his feet and hurried over.

  “There you are! I was beginning to think you weren’t coming!” he exclaimed, visibly relieved. “I’m Truk Elius. I’ll show you the way.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode to the door.

  Tungdil scratched his beard. “I’m afraid I don’t…”

  “Hurry up,” the man said sharply. “Come on, groundling, your services are required. We’re late enough already.” His pointed shoes drummed impatiently against the floor.

  “Oh,” said Tungdil. He knew that most itinerant dwarves were blacksmiths, and it wasn’t uncommon for humans to assume that all dwarves were metalworkers. Still, blacksmiths weren’t in the habit of carrying weapons like Keenfire. The man was obviously stupid or blind. “You should probably ask someone else. I’m a bit out of practice.”

  “Nonsense! Any groundling could handle a job like this.” The man’s blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this about money?” he asked suspiciously. “You’ll get the same as the others, and not a penny more. Another word, and I’ll report you as a troublemaker; you won’t be hired in Hillchester again.”

  Tungdil decided to play along. Metalwork came easily to him, and it would be a good opportunity to ask some questions about the orcs. Besides, he didn’t want the citizens of Hillchester to think that his kinsfolk were unreliable—unlike gnomes and kobolds, the children of Vraccas could be trusted to keep their word. “I’ll do what I can, but it might take longer than usual—and I’m not a groundling; I’m a dwarf.”

  Elius laughed. “After the first few strokes you’ll be fine.”

  Tungdil had a sudden thought. “I haven’t brought any tools.”

  “We’ve got everything set up for you,” said Elius, pointing to the door. “Let’s go.”

  They hurried through the alleyways, heading for the center of Hillchester. Tungdil found himself jogging to keep up with the long-legged man.

  Judging by the number of people who greeted them, Elius was a well-known personality in the town. After a while it dawned on the wheezing Tungdil that Truk wasn’t a forename, as he had supposed, but an honorific title. It seemed likely that his new employer was in the service of King Bruron.

  Ahead of them, the alleyway broadened, opening into a proper street. Tungdil detected the hum of several hundred voices. They were still some distance away, but Tungdil guessed from the music and laughter that the festivities were in full swing.

  Truk Elius rounded a corner and came to a halt. Tungdil stared at the vast gathering of people. From his standpoint, their legs and torsos formed a single impenetrable wall. There was no way through.

  His pessimism wasn’t shared by Elius, who clearly thought it beneath him to make a detour around the square. “Out of the way,” he shouted, stepping briskly into the marketplace. “Out of the way, citizens of Hillchester!”

  The crowd separated obediently, allowing the man and his stocky companion to pass.

  After a while, Tungdil noticed a big wooden stage in the middle of the square. They seemed to be heading straight for it.

  Standing on the rectangular platform were four soldiers and eight civilians dressed in nothing but thin, grubby rags. Steel handcuffs encircled their wrists, and blindfolds covered their eyes.

  It looks like an execution, thought Tungdil, confused. Looking around, he realized that the festivities weren’t quite as harmless as he had imagined; the citizens of Hillchester were celebrating the imminent death of eight of their number—three women and five men. Elius ascended the steps to the platform, pausing when he realized that Tungdil had stopped. “Get a move on,” he ordered, signaling for him to follow.

  It finally dawned on Tungdil that their route through the marketplace wasn’t a shortcut to the forge.

  He thinks I’m an executioner! Tungdil stepped back. “There’s been a mistake,” he said loudly. “I’m not an executioner.”

  The crowd gasped.

  Elius strode down the steps toward him. “What’s this?” he hissed. “I warned you not to haggle. The rabble wants blood—if you don’t kill the prisoners, they’ll settle for yours.” He scrabbled around in his purse and pressed a few coins into Tungdil’s hand. “All right, here’s a little extra from me. Now get up there and do your job!”

  “You don’t understand,” said Tungdil, determined to put an end to the confusion. “I’m not an executioner. My name is Tungdil Goldhand. I’m here on a—”

  “Tungdil? I don’t know any Tungdils!” said Elius, taken aback. “We hired Bramdal, the best itinerant executioner in Gauragar.”

  The crowd’s surprise turned to anger. It was clear from the shouts and jeers that they weren’t prepared to wait.

  Elius glared at the dwarf. “I don’t care what your name is or who you are; all I need is a gr
oundling.” He grabbed Tungdil’s shoulder and tried to drag him up the stairs, but the dwarf was determined not to budge. “Keep this up, and I’ll have you arrested,” threatened Elius. “I order you to behead them.”

  “No,” said Tungdil, giving up on Elius and deciding to chance it with the crowd. The man seemed to fear the citizens of Hillchester, which Tungdil took as a positive sign. His legs carried him up the stairs and onto the podium.

  A loud cheer went up from the assembled masses when the dwarf appeared on the stage. Tungdil looked at the rows of crazed faces, all baying for blood, and suspected that Elius was right. No one would leave the stage alive unless the execution went ahead. He and the eight prisoners were trapped.

  The executioner’s block was at the center of the stage. The furrowed wood was stained with patches of dark red blood and bore the marks of countless executions. A broad-bladed ax lay two paces to the side.

  The guards pushed a woman to the front of the stage. After a quick drum roll, a herald read out her name and her crime.

  Tungdil gathered that his first victim was a disloyal spouse. The woman’s husband had died and she had been seen with a new suitor before the full period of mourning had elapsed. She wasn’t a murderer or a violent criminal; her only crime was love. Love. He suddenly thought of Balyndis.

  The woman was dragged to the executioner’s block and forced to her knees. The guard’s movements were forceful and precise. He pushed her head against the wood, seized her long hair and wrapped it round a metal pole. Now her neck was exposed and she couldn’t turn her head or move. The drumming grew louder and faster.

  A violent shove sent Tungdil stumbling forward. His hand touched the woman’s back, and he felt her shaking body through the flimsy fabric of her vest. Her sobs were barely audible, which made him pity her all the more. He stared at the soft, smooth skin on her neck and shoulders; she was only a girl, condemned to death by a law that, in Tungdil’s opinion, was downright absurd. If the humans want to kill her, they should do it themselves.

  “What are you waiting for?” snarled the guard. “Hurry up and chop off her head. There’s another seven to go.”

  “For the last time, I’m not an executioner!” shouted Tungdil, holding Keenfire in the air. “My name is Tungdil Goldhand. This blade killed Nôd’onn and freed you from the Perished Land. I’m not your henchman.” He picked up the executioner’s ax and held it out for the guard to take. “Here, do it yourself if you’re so keen for her to die. I won’t do it for you.”

  His speech caused an uproar. Pushing and shoving, the crowd surged forward, determined to see blood.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you stupid groundling,” snapped Elius, staring fearfully at the mob. It was clear that the soldiers were barely able to restrain the frenzied crowd.

  Tungdil offered him the ax without a word.

  “What are you doing? I’m not an executioner, I’m a Truk,” said Elius indignantly. He stooped down and shoved his face into Tungdil’s, filling the dwarf’s nostrils with his perfume. “You’ll rot in prison for this, groundling,” he hissed with a shake of his ridiculous little hat. “Although I’ve a mind to throw you to the crowd.”

  Another cheer went up, louder and more triumphant. Tungdil and Elius swung round.

  A powerfully built dwarf was limping across the stage toward them. He was dressed in black with brown leather armor and heavy boots. His features were hidden by a leather mask, and long fair braids hung down from his chin.

  His footsteps thudded against the planked floor. “I was delayed,” he said tersely. Without another word, he took the executioner’s ax from Tungdil and marched to the block. He didn’t stop to take aim, just hefted the weapon with two hands and swung it mid-stride.

  The blade cut a whistling arc through the air and connected with the prisoner’s neck, killing her outright. Her head thudded to the floor, and blood spurted from the grisly stump. Her headless torso twitched a final time, showering the front row of spectators with droplets of blood, then her body fell from the block.

  The black-clad dwarf sliced through her hair to free the head from the pole. He held it up for the crowd to see. The ax had chopped cleanly through skin, sinew, and bone. Bramdal certainly knew his stuff.

  “Get out of my sight,” hissed Elius to Tungdil, who quickly obliged. Hurrying away from the stage, he found himself a spot not far from the marketplace and settled down to wait for Bramdal. It didn’t occur to him to return Elius’s money; gold was gold.

  The crowd cheered for a bit, then went quiet, a pattern that repeated itself at irregular intervals another seven times. Then the music started and the citizens of Hillchester laughed, cheered, danced, and celebrated while the severed heads were hoisted on flagpoles next to the stage.

  A short while later, the black-clad dwarf appeared at Tungdil’s side. A few specks of gore flecked his boots and his armor, but his clothes bore no trace of his grisly work. Tungdil looked him up and down. His leather mask was dangling from his belt.

  “I heard about the mix-up,” laughed the executioner. “It’s not often I’m mistaken for another dwarf.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bramdal Masterstroke.” There was a pause while he waited for Tungdil to reply.

  Tungdil studied his features. Bramdal Masterstroke, professional executioner, was many cycles older than he was, but his deep brown eyes were bright and shiny. Despite his gruesome trade and the many deaths he had witnessed, he seemed neither gloomy nor remorseful.

  Tungdil cleared his throat. “Why do you do this?” he demanded, gesturing toward the eight heads hoisted from the flagpoles.

  “Why not? Some dwarves are smiths, some are bakers, and I’m an executioner. It’s just a trade.” His eyes smiled at Tungdil from under the black headscarf that covered his fair hair. His cheeks were shaven except for a small circle around his mouth and chin. “Shall we go somewhere quieter?”

  They set off down the alleyway.

  “Which kingdom are you from, Tungdil Goldhand?” enquired the executioner in a soft, gentle voice. “I’d like to hear news of my kinsfolk. It’s a rare pleasure to meet another dwarf, and you don’t look like a tinker or a traveling smith. Are you an exile?”

  “I was going to ask you the same,” said Tungdil, thanking Vraccas for introducing him to the dwarf. In spite of the initially unpromising circumstances of their encounter, it looked as though Bramdal might be the key to locating the tunnel-dwelling dwarves. “Are you an outcast?” he demanded.

  Bramdal laughed. “Yes and no. I’ve found a new home, far away from the other folks. I didn’t like the rules in my kingdom, so I broke them on purpose. I’m an exile by choice.” He played with his corn-colored braids. “Nothing would induce me to go back. How about you?”

  Tungdil was about to introduce himself properly and explain the nature of his mission and the fortuitousness of their encounter when he suddenly thought the better of it and decided to let Bramdal think that he was an outcast too. “I loved a maiden and her heart belonged to me, but she was promised to someone else. I killed him in a quarrel.” The lie came easily—too easily. He looked away.

  Bramdal nodded. “Not all of our laws are just, and it’s time they were changed.” He looked at Tungdil intently. “What if I were to tell you that there’s a place where dwarves aren’t tied to the precepts of family and clan?”

  He stopped in front of a tavern and held the door open for Tungdil, who was digesting the news. They sat down by the fire and the executioner ordered two beers.

  “Is there really such a place?” asked Tungdil, after taking a long draft of beer.

  Bramdal nodded. “There is indeed, Tungdil Goldhand. It’s a place where dwarves live together as equals, free from the tyranny of traditions and laws.”

  “Isn’t it chaos?”

  “We still have rules,” admitted the executioner. “The king and queen make sure we stick to them, but it’s basic stuff about working for the common good and not harming each other. There’s nothing ab
out clan lore and other bunkum. We’re equals, and no one can tell us what to do.”

  Tungdil looked at Bramdal over the rim of his tankard. “So why are you in Gauragar, chopping off heads?”

  “For the money, of course,” the executioner said coolly. “I used to be really busy when the Perished Land was still around. With revenants all over the place, my skills were in demand. Besides, I like to help humans; it’s our Vraccas-given task.”

  “Help them?” exclaimed Tungdil. “You’ve made it your business to kill them. How does that make you different to an orc?”

  “I’m protecting them from themselves. I don’t kill for the sake of killing; my duty is to clear out the dross. Vraccas wants us to help the humans, so I rid them of lawbreakers like the eight men and women on the stage. A quick blow to the neck, and the city is a safer place. Criminals are as dangerous as orcs.”

  “What about the widow who didn’t stick to the mourning period? Was she a danger?”

  “She broke the law, and that’s the danger. It’s not my place to question their laws,” said Bramdal, emptying his tankard. “It’s stupid to have too many laws, but it’s important to keep the ones you’ve got. Humans, elves, dwarves—we’re all the same.” He cocked his head. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

  “What question?”

  “About your lineage.”

  “I’m a…” He stopped short, unsure of what to say. The beer and the memory of Balyndis weighed on his heart.

  “Only a thirdling would hesitate like that,” observed Bramdal. His voice was calm and non-judgmental. “You’re not obliged to answer. In any case, lineage doesn’t matter where I come from.”

  Tungdil leaned forward. “Do you mean you’ve got thirdlings in your kingdom?”

  Bramdal roared with laughter, delighted by Tungdil’s amazement. “Our halls are open to all exiles, regardless of where they come from—including members of the thirdling kingdom. All we ask is that everyone sticks to the rules; if they don’t…” He laid his right hand on his ax.